We were at my uncle Fletcher's place in St. Croix. Ali would be arriving for brunch any minute now. My dad asked my uncle if we could take a picture, my sister and me, both in our twenties, simultaneously shouted, "No! That's so uncool!" but my uncle said, "Sure!" and my sister and me instantly switched to, "I wanna be in the picture! I wanna be in the picture!"
About ten of us stood in front of my uncle's home, lined up like the staff of Downton Abbey. Finally, a van pulled up and a half-dozen middle-aged black dudes with out of style Afros lumbered out, each with blue baseball caps with ALI on the cap in gold, and admiral-styled golden "fried eggs" on the brim.
As my dad and uncle chit-chatted with his entourage, Ali slipped out of the van and wandered around the property, not talking to anyone. We'd all heard his slurred speech on TV and this odd behavior was starting to break my heart. I was just watching the entourage, thinking about how sad it was that Ali wasn't the man he used to be, off wandering somewhere far behind me.
A fly, or maybe a mosquito was buzzing my right ear. I kept swatting it away, kept thinking about Ali. Gradually I noticed that his entourage was laughing at me. Then I turned around.
For I don't know how long, Muhammad Ali had been no more than an inch behind me and only me, rubbing his fingers by my ear making an insect sound.
Then he put up his dukes.
I nearly burst into tears. The most famous man in the world, my absolute hero of heroes, was pretending to box me! Feebly I raised my fists and everyone howled with laughter.
Rest in peace, champ. The only person who called themselves "The Greatest" who actually was.
